Winter
by AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: "Oh, dating. Romance. Ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "Asking you to have coffee," he spat the word, "would have been pure prevarication, given my intentions. I'm not interested in playing out some meaningless script of conventional courtship. I am interested in holding you down and doing incredibly filthy things to you. And making you enjoy every moment of it."
1. Chapter 1

Molly was starting to nod over the last of her paperwork when _he_ strode into the lab, long coat flowing, a few snowflakes still caught in his dark hair.

"Sherlock," Molly said, suddenly wide awake. "How did you get in? The department has been closed for hours. Everyone has gone home."

Sherlock's eyes cast quickly down the length of the empty room and back to the pathologist. "A few locked doors and a couple of alarms do not signify, Molly. Surely you know that by now."

Molly pursed her lips, pleased in spite of herself that the detective (her detective, as she sometimes dared to think of him) had circumvented security to come and see her. He'd only just got out of hospital after being shot, and it was lovely to see him dashing around again.

"I suppose you won't tell me how you got in?" Molly asked, trying to be stern with him but feeling a smile creep onto her face.

"You suppose correctly," he said in his commanding baritone. "Molly, I need your help with an experiment. Now."

"Oh." Molly put down her pen, but then thought of how furious her boss would be if he found out that she had once more broken the longstanding "no Sherlock Holmes after hours" rule. She had to put him off, but how?

"I, um, I cleared away all my equipment already, so-"

"Not a problem," Sherlock cut in, smiling tightly. "The experiment I have in mind is psychosocial in nature."

Mystified, Molly slid off the tall chair. "Psychosocial. Not exactly up your street, is it, that sort of thing?"

"I gather the data I need, when I need it. Now clear a space on the counter, about a meter square." A directive, not a request. "Wherever's most convenient," he added generously, keeping his own hands in his pockets.

Molly blinked once, then started clearing away part of the long lab counter. Well, imperious as always. She really should mind it more than she did.

As she set down the last beaker, Sherlock continued, "I need you for this experiment, Molly. A case study, really. I want to make a few observations with you as my subject."

"Me?"

"Yes. You." His ice-blue gaze focused in on her, and Molly knew he was cataloguing every reflexive tensing of her muscles, every nervous intake of breath. Molly felt herself pinned under the force of Sherlock's eyes, and knew that his experiment had already begun.

Casually, with one foot, Sherlock pushed a stepstool a few inches over so that it was right in front of the cleared area. "Remove your shoes and your lab coat, step onto the first step, and face the counter," he said.

More orders. Well, all right, Molly told herself. It was far from the weirdest thing he had ever required from her. She smiled as she remembered his casual inquiry after an edentate head and a left forearm with a recently healed compound radial fracture, both from the same cadaver. Whatever he had in mind couldn't possibly compare.

Molly toed off her sensible shoes, laid aside her lab coat, and stepped onto the stepstool in her stocking feet. Sherlock was watching her closely, his eyes raking down her body. She felt a blush spreading up her neck, and knew that he must be noting it.

"Yes, that will work. Now, bend over onto the countertop."

"Sherlock, what…" Molly turned curiously. Distractedly, she noticed that he was still just a little taller than her, despite the stepstool.

"Face down, on the counter, Molly. I need data." His voice grew softer, deeper, almost tender. "I need to observe your reactions. Will you help me, Molly? Please."

Molly couldn't resist that voice. She obeyed him, bending over the counter and resting her head on her arms. It was not uncomfortable; the stepstool placed the hinge of her hips precisely at the counter's edge. "And I suppose someone's life depends on this data? Somehow?" she asked, her voice squeaking just a bit.

She heard Sherlock chuckle behind her.

Moments passed. Molly listened, but the lab around her was silent. It seemed that Sherlock was simply standing still, observing. Perhaps this-whatever it was-was all he wanted?

But Sherlock spoke into the silence.

"Molly. Raise your skirt."

A pause. She could not see his face, but she could feel his gaze like a weight on her body.

"Sherlock." Molly spoke urgently. "What are you doing? Why-why do you want me to do this?" She was…not afraid, precisely…but her body was aglow with the strangeness of her position, such a vulnerable position, and of him looming so close behind her.

"Do you trust me, Molly?"

"I...yes."

She felt the rustle of his coat on one side of her body as he bent over her. His face came into view, inches from hers.

"Molly, I want you to know that you are safe with me, always. I will do nothing to harm you. You will help me be the judge of that."

Her body thrilled to his nearness, the faint scent of his hair, and the feel of his hand resting lightly on the small of her back.

"I will stop everything and draw away from you immediately whenever you say the word 'skull.' Anytime you like." He watched her face carefully. "I may also require the word from you, and then I will stop if you _fail_ to say it. Say 'skull' now, Molly."

"Skull," she replied, steadily holding his eyes.

"Again."

"Skull," she said, a little louder. He would stop "everything" if she said this word?

His eyes crinkled with pleasure. "Good girl." His face disappeared, and she felt him stand upright, still behind her, his gloved hand always on the small of her back.

"So, now, raise your skirt. This too is necessary."

A deep breath, and another. Yes, she trusted him. Molly drew her hands down to her waist and pulled her skirt up over her bottom. Sherlock's hand lifted for a moment, tucking the excess fabric underneath her and then returning, possessively, to the small of her back.

"Now lower your tights…and take down your pants with them. "

Her blood thundered in her ears.

Molly took a breath, and reminded herself that she really was safe, that she could always say "skull" anytime she pleased, and always trust Sherlock to respect it. And she realized something more. With a molten rush of heat to her face, she knew that she wanted to obey him. That she burned to show Sherlock, beautiful brilliant Sherlock, her bare bottom.

As if in a dream, she slowly, slowly pulled her final layers down over her arse, her face blazing hot against the cool countertop, legs trembling.

Molly felt Sherlock's hand move on her back, just a fraction of an inch. Surely he was now inspecting her white bum and pink folds. She tried to keep her bottom lifted high for him, knowing there was no hiding from his gaze. No need to be Sherlock Holmes to see how aroused she had become. Never in her life had she been so excited, not even that time at uni when her boyfriend had tied her to his bed and…

"Ah," Sherlock said, his voice somehow different. "Beautiful, Molly. You're doing beautifully. See if you can reach your arms up and hold onto the other side of the counter. Yes, well done."

The hand at the small of her back moved downward. His gloved fingers cupped her right buttock, then her left. His large hand spanned her arse, pressing her cheeks together. Molly could not help it; she heard herself making a faint keening sound as his hand moved her bum from side to side, experimentally.

"Lovely, Molly. And...what's this?...So...very...wet."

Molly couldn't help herself; she moaned softly. With those words, Sherlock had brought into the open air the undeniable carnality of his experiment. As if stepping outside herself, Molly saw the scene: the slight woman bent over the counter with her pants around her thighs, the tall man just behind her, icy eyes focused on her naked bottom. The image shimmered in the lights behind Molly's eyes.

Inexorably, Sherlock's thumb moved into the cleft between her buttocks.

"So exquisitely wet, Molly. Like a pink rose dipped in oil...and look, a sweet pink rosebud to match," he said, his thumb tugging at the skin a scant inch to the side of her tiniest opening.

Molly shivered. No one had yet touched her there.

"And so sensitive. Yes."

Sherlock's hand drew away. Molly whimpered, bereft.

"Quiet," he snapped, making Molly jump. "I'm removing my gloves now. There," he said, his voice gentle once more, and she felt his hand again, now sliding almost chastely down her hip. His bare skin against hers. "That's better, isn't it." She felt his other hand now, soothing, as he slowly stroked her white arse and thighs.

"So lovely, Molly. And you're being so brave, so brave for me." His fingers quested. "This experiment is an important one. Precise observations are crucial to my inquiry. What would I observe, I wonder, if I touched you…here?"

And Sherlock's cool, clever fingers slowly stroked into the hot folds of her cunt.

"Oh. Ah ha. Ah ha ha!" Molly was astounded to hear herself laughing as pleasure seared her.

From the moment Sherlock had directed her to bend over the counter, her body had warmed to his orders, his domineering voice, his aura of power. Molly Hooper was a professional woman, a fully qualified doctor, a noted researcher in her field. But even so, here, tonight, she was squirming on a lab counter as Sherlock took her unprotesting body firmly in hand.

Sherlock slipped a finger deep into her body. And another. Helplessly, Molly lifted her hips, silently begging for more fullness, more pressure. Sherlock teased her instead, drawing his fingers out and swirling two fingertips around her swollen bud.

"Classic female sexual response. Vasocongestion and blushing of the vulva. Lengthening of the vaginal canal. Clitoris slips out of hiding. Lubrication…such a quantity, Molly. Any interest in saying your word? I thought not." He cupped her cunt with his whole hand, wicked fingers still rolling over her most sensitive area.

"Lift up that pretty behind for me. Higher."

Deliriously, Molly obeyed. What else was there?

Moments passed, and Molly felt his other hand roaming over her arse, his hand between her legs never still. Sherlock was stroking her with undeniable skill, observing her responses, noting the touches that made her squirm and sigh. Time slowed, and Molly's whole world narrowed in on the coolness of the countertop under her breasts, the faint sounds of Sherlock's exhalations behind her, the molten pleasure in her cunt.

Finally, she felt Sherlock leaning over her, pinning her body to the countertop.

"You like being under me, little Molly? Give me your word or I'll stop."

"Skull!" Molly cried. "Oh god, Sherlock…"

The fabric of his coat covered them both-his clothed erection almost painful against her hip-a gathering tightness deep in her belly, a warning-

"Come for me, Molly. Yes. There we are," Sherlock said, as Molly turned her head and screamed into her arm. Helpless, she rode out the sharp ripples of her orgasm, trapped under the delicious weight of Sherlock's body.

"Oh, good girl. My good girl," he said, rather breathlessly, caressing her soft arse, her hip. She felt him rest his head on her shoulder.

Molly shifted under him, slowly coming back to herself. Sherlock was supporting his own weight now, but was still arched over her. His hand cradled her pussy, shielding her warm wetness from the chilly air of the lab.

Molly's mind drifted. She knew she ought to be feeling...something...but just couldn't be bothered at the moment. Molly let her eyes close, and relaxed. She and Sherlock breathed together.

After long minutes, she felt him stir, pushing off her, his hand finally coming away. She turned her head, catching a white flash of fabric out of the corner of her eye just as he said, "No. Eyes forward." His voice was cool and even again.

Molly obeyed, puzzled, her gaze wandering across the counter and over grey cabinets, cold glassware.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said. "We shall talk...later."

She felt him step back, drawing away from her, and confusion arose like a fog. She tried to obey him and keep her eyes forward, but as she heard more footsteps, she gave in to curiosity and furtively peeked to the side. She saw Sherlock from the back as he walked calmly away, wiping his hand on the white handkerchief and whipping it back into his pocket. Molly's confusion deepened as she watched Sherlock open the door, keeping his face turned away, and leave the lab.

Molly collapsed bonelessly back onto the counter, oddly relieved, her body and mind suddenly heavy with fatigue. After a time, she reached back to pull up her pants.

An hour later, just as Molly was about to slip into a candlelit bath to enjoy the silky water and process the events of the evening, she heard her phone chime.

_I trust you got safely home.  
SH_

Molly smiled with one corner of her mouth.

_Yes I did._

Molly paused, then sent another reply.

_So, you really have to tell me. What was that experiment all about?_

_If you care to continue, come to Baker Street tomorrow, 16:00. Wear a skirt._


	2. Chapter 2

At precisely 3:59 pm the next day, Molly climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, excitement quickening her steps, questions fluttering inside her like caged butterflies. When she opened the door to the main room, Sherlock was looking out the window, hands in his pockets.

"You are 30 seconds early, Molly. Lock the door behind you, please. Mrs Hudson has been making vague threats of invasion...something about the refrigerator and undiluted bleach."

"I've never seen this door locked before," Molly said as she moved to obey, going around to the side to lock the kitchen door as well. Sherlock had built a fire in the grate; the room was dim and rather too warm after the bright, bracing cold of the winter afternoon.

"I've never particularly cared about privacy or the illusion of safety, but have learned to make no assumptions about others." Sherlock turned toward her, a smile in his eyes. "Molly. I'm glad you've come. Though I knew you would, of course."

"Did you? I wasn't so sure, myself," Molly told him, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure of where to stand.

"Tell me," Sherlock said.

"Well, what you did to me last night...it was...good. But it was rather presumptuous of you, Sherlock."

"To say the least," he said, his smile gone.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock?" The words rushed out of her. "We've known each other for years, and you've always known. How I feel. Why did you do that...the way you did?"

"It was an experiment. And of course, I've been highly aware of your feelings. But it took me a long time to really understand you, Molly."

Sherlock crossed the room, the lines of his lean body outlined in the shaft of sunlight.

"For several years now, I have watched you, and wondered. Here before me stands a woman who was once the youngest histopathologist ever to qualify in the UK, and is now a noted researcher who publishes regularly in respected journals. Highly esteemed by her colleagues, treasured by her friends, pursuing her own very specific professional goals. A woman from a poor family who now owns a flat in central London, with money in the bank besides."

"How did you know-"

"And yet, here before me stands a woman who, between her research projects and pathology rotas, somehow finds time to help a certain rather demanding detective whenever he appears; in fact, she happily serves my every whim. She extends no such extraordinary accommodation to anyone else; I checked. A woman who risked her career to save my life, because I asked. A woman who bent over her own lab counter and dropped her knickers for no other reason than because I, Sherlock Holmes, told her to do so. What do you make of that, Molly?"

She was silent. Her racing pulse was surely visible at her throat.

Sherlock took another step toward her, covering her in his shadow. "You know I have a, shall we say, authoritative nature. When I first met you, I noticed that you responded to me almost instinctively."

"You're like no one else I've ever known," Molly said, her eyes hot. "So...demanding, so...inexorable. It's like being pulled along by a river."

"And you rather enjoy being swept along, don't you."

"As long as I'm not actually in danger, yes." Molly held his eyes. "I trusted you last night, Sherlock. But it was very...sudden."

"You know my methods, Molly. Last night I observed you carefully, and saw confusion and startlement, but no anxiety. If I'd seen any indication of fear, anger or disgust, I would have stopped instantly, you know. And in the unlikely event that I had missed something, I knew you would use your safeword. I never work without one, even though a safeword is almost beside the point when you're under Sherlock Holmes. Almost."

Molly reflected. He was right; she'd been shocked, but she'd never wanted him to stop.

"I also saw trust, and even...joy. That was my experiment, Molly. I prefer a direct approach, which facilitated observation of your spontaneous reactions to my demands. And last night you were surprised, but you chose to trust me, and you enjoyed yourself. Very definitely."

"I did. But still, Sherlock! You just barged into Bart's, pulled down my pants and…"

"I have very little patience with social niceties, as you are surely aware. I am a man of extremely…particular tastes, Molly. In a sexual partner, I need a person who complements those tastes in several very specific ways. Few people can hold my attention, much less my fancy. But you, Molly...you."

With a perfect assurance that stunned Molly, Sherlock closed the distance between them, reached out, and laced his fingers into her hair. He gripped her hair firmly by the roots and turned her head to look into her face.

"I respect your expertise, your intellectual accomplishment. I admire your kindness and your courage. I find you beautiful, in your delicate sort of way. I recognize that your patience with my eccentricities is unusual. Not least," Sherlock said, tightening his grip, "your obvious appreciation for erotic submission suits my own requirements."

Through her arousal, Molly noticed that Sherlock wasn't smiling, nor was he trying to charm or wheedle. To Sherlock, these were bald statements of fact. It didn't make them any less nice to hear. Her scalp tingled.

"John Watson taught me to appreciate the value of human interaction for its own sake, and having you near is...pleasant. While I was recovering from the gunshot wound, you were much on my mind. And having come to the conclusion that I want you, and given the fact that a discreet interval has now elapsed since your engagement ended, I see no reason why I should not begin to enjoy you as soon as possible."

Molly felt something unclench deep within her. To her dismay, her vision blurred, and two fat tears fell down her face. Sherlock loosened his grip on her scalp and gathered her to himself; she tried not to snuffle into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.

Presently he drew away and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Molly glanced at it doubtfully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not the handkerchief from last night, Molly."

She laughed shakily and accepted it, feeling a bit self-conscious. She wished he wouldn't watch her so narrowly as she blew her nose.

"You know, Sherlock," Molly ventured, "most people at least ask the other person to go for coffee before…you know…doing this whole, ah, lab counter bit."

"Oh, dating. _Romance._ Ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "Asking you to have _coffee,_" he spat the word, "would have been pure prevarication, given my intentions. Massive waste of time. I'm not interested in playing out some meaningless script of conventional courtship." Sherlock drew even closer, too close, until his voice grated in Molly's ear. "I _am_ interested in holding you down and doing incredibly filthy things to you. And making you enjoy every moment of it."

Molly swayed in his arms.

Sherlock smirked at her reaction. "Yes, dating, dull. Like I said: prevarication and obfuscation, a facade of best behavior soon to be dropped. Do you honestly believe me capable of playing the gallant suitor? Can you see me…oh, what is it that people do. Oh yes. Bringing _flowers_? And how many dates is the accepted minimum before it's considered proper to take a partner to bed, much less explore the sexual submission I require?"

Molly's body thrilled at hearing Sherlock's velvety voice saying "sexual submission." He was right, in a way: flowers did seem rather boring in comparison. But...

Molly drew away from him, taking his wrist and moving his hand out of her hair. "Okay. I don't expect normal dating behavior from Sherlock Holmes. I understand that. It's fine. But you know, Sherlock, you used to...manipulate me. Use my feelings to get what you wanted. And there were times...not recently...that you were rather horrible, you know. You said things that really hurt me. That have been hard to forget."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, bending his head. "I know. I remember. It was usually when I was impatient to get on with a case, or irritated with the entire situation, though that's no excuse. I was cynical about emotion, about what I believed was your shallow infatuation. I am sorry. Forgive me."

Molly considered this. "And how do you feel about emotion now? About...love?"

Sherlock's face grew still, and he turned slowly away. As the silence lengthened, Molly felt dread creeping into her belly. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke without turning around.

"Like I said, I think highly of you, Molly. I would say that I regard you as…very special. But I can't honestly say that I have ever been in love, nor do I wish to be. I've come to recognize that there is a valid place for such emotions in the lives of others. But as for myself, my ability to remain objective, and to stay focused on my work, must always come first."

Molly swallowed.

"I will not be your boyfriend, Molly. I will give you pleasure, of course. I can offer you sexual exclusivity, and a promise to provide you with the best of care during our sessions. But it's not in my nature to be a reliable source of emotional intimacy. And, of course, I'm wildly unsuited to act as your partner in any kind of...social capacity. Molly, think carefully. Is this acceptable to you?"

Molly's heart ached at his honesty, and she knew that the safe, sensible thing would be to walk away from him. But there was only ever one answer that she could give.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I can live with that." She'd have to find a way. She had other sources of support, and she wanted to explore the possibilities he'd opened up to her. Yes, she told herself. She didn't need emotional validation of her desire. She'd do just what she wanted for once; she was strong enough to handle whatever Sherlock Holmes could do to her.

Sherlock turned around to face her, and nodded. "Thank you. We'll revisit the topic if it becomes a problem for you."

Something about that irritated Molly, but Sherlock kept going.

"Speaking of communication, Molly, I often like to preserve the element of surprise while I'm dominating my partner, rather than planning every detail with them in advance. Based on your reactions last night, I believe you may also enjoy this approach. Am I correct?"

"I...yes, I think so," Molly said. "As long as your plans aren't too extreme. Not that I really know what that means, when you get right down to it."

"Definitions vary. We'll find out more as we proceed. And of course, there's always your safeword."

Sherlock's eyes turned dark. "So. All this talk has left me rather eager. Molly Hooper, I want to make you come, tonight. Shall we begin?"

Such things he said. Molly felt the glow of anticipation flare in her belly, but she had one more question. "Sherlock, this may seem silly, but are you experienced with this sort of thing?"

"Yes, Molly, quite a silly question. And yes. Very experienced. You may find my tastes rather... cultivated at times. By which I mean difficult."

Molly shivered, but looked at him steadily. "Try me."

"Oh, I will. Now, Molly, your face is flushed. I want you out of all that winter clothing." He leaned casually against the table and crossed his arms, clearly settling in to watch her undress.

Molly was amazed to find her shyness rise up and evaporate under his white-hot gaze. Eager to obey, Molly shucked off her scarf, coat and shoes, then struggled for a moment with the top button of her blouse.

"Quickly, Molly. Break the button if you have to; I'm not feeling very patient today. And don't forget to take your hair down."

Molly triumphed over the stubborn button, then started piling her clothes on what she thought of as John Watson's armchair, though John didn't live here anymore, of course. As required, she'd worn a skirt, but that went on John's armchair as well. Perhaps he'd just wanted to see whether she'd follow orders.

Sherlock's eyes were locked on her at every moment; peering over, she saw him take a heavy breath as she opened her bra for him. Finally Molly stepped out of her lacy pants and stood naked before Sherlock, just as she'd imagined so many times. Teasingly, she reached up with both hands and pulled her hair out of its ponytail, arching her breasts toward him. She tossed her head and smiled proudly as it fell around her bare shoulders.

Sherlock moved in, prowling toward her like a hunter. "Ah. Look at you," he purred, circling behind her. "Oh, Molly." He lifted the heavy drape of her hair and inhaled the scent of her nape. She sighed, arching her neck for him as he nuzzled behind her ear.

"That was obviously your prettiest set of bra and pants, but you need no decoration. Look at these sweet little breasts," he said, bending to inspect them. Clever hands caressed her flesh. "So pink...As above, so below." He blew hard on her nipples. Molly gasped, and Sherlock chuckled.

"Oh, you're a tender one. I'm going to enjoy you. Now, stay right here and face the windows. I'll put the kettle on."

Had she heard him correctly? It seemed so, since he'd sprung past her into the kitchen in a burst of energy. Molly heard clattering china, the rush of water in the sink, and the click of an electric kettle. Sherlock even began humming happily as he bustled about, clearly getting tea things ready. Why, yes, Molly thought. It's actually the old-fashioned tea-time.

As she waited, Molly realized that even though she was naked, she was perfectly comfortable in the warm room; Sherlock had turned up the heat and built a fire so that she wouldn't be chilly. Molly beamed at the window and relaxed a bit more.

Finally, Sherlock brushed past her with a tray. "Now then," he said, setting down the tea set and what looked like an unusually scrumptious array of bite-sized treats. Molly saw petits fours, little flaky biscuits and miniature tea cakes.

Sherlock turned to her and let his eyes wander down her body, deliberately insolent, for a long moment before giving his next order. "Seat yourself beside my chair, by the fire."

Molly moved toward the spot he pointed to, the fireplace tile baking warm under her bare feet. In the cosy nook between Sherlock's chair and the fireplace, Molly spied a thick, luxurious sheepskin, arranged into a sort of nest and clearly placed there in advance for her. She sighed with enjoyment as she sank down into its soft depths.

"Kneel, facing me," Sherlock instructed as he sat down in his chair. "I'm going to pour you a cup."

Molly watched happily as he prepared the tea just the way she liked it: a little cream, plenty of sugar. Sherlock picked up the teacup, but ignored her as she reached out for it automatically. Instead, he took a fine linen napkin from the tray. He held it under her chin as he carefully tipped the cup toward her mouth.

Molly sipped, enjoying his attentiveness and control as well as the tea. Sherlock put the cup down, then selected a petit four and held it up. Getting the idea, Molly lifted her face and accepted the tidbit into her open mouth.

Sherlock made a pleased sound and raked his fingers through her hair. Molly arched like a cat under his hand.

Sherlock poured his own cup, then sat back to enjoy it, giving Molly frequent sips of tea and occasionally feeding her some sweet little morsel. Molly basked in the fire's heat, curving her back and enjoying her shameless display of nudity for an obviously appreciative Sherlock. Boldly, she nuzzled her cheek against his lean thigh, turning a little to peek up at him. Sherlock was smiling lazily, his face just a little flushed. He set down his cup and saucer.

"Now, Molly," he said. "You didn't have to tell me how you like your tea. But you do need to tell me how you like your kinky sex. No giggling," he scolded as she blinked and tittered at his frank turn of phrase. "This is important. We'll learn more as we continue, but tell me now if there is anything you already know that you don't want me to do to you."

Molly contemplated the pictures that had been flashing in front of her eyes for the past day, each more lurid than the last. But...first things first.

"Well. Condoms. I need to be safe. I know I'm perfectly healthy, but…you have a history of intravenous drug use, Sherlock," she said, sorry to break the mood, but needing to get it into the open.

"Yes, of course," he said, touching her cheek. "I told you I'd take good care of you, and that part is integral. Anything else?"

"My feet are unbearably ticklish."

"I generally regard tickling as an act of war. What else, Molly?"

"I don't want to be beaten hard or...made to bleed."

"From experience, I wholeheartedly concur. Anything else come to mind?"

"Not at the moment…"

"How would you feel about...a little spanking?" Sherlock asked, smiling wolfishly.

Molly dropped his gaze, blushing pinkly. She shifted on her heels.

"I see." Sherlock said, rising to his full height so that she had to crane up at him. "Proverbially, someone has been a very naughty girl. Do you remember your safeword? I'll require it later, to verify that we are still in full accord."

"Skull," Molly whispered, her eyes alight.

In a sudden, violent motion that made Molly jump, Sherlock shoved his chair well away from the fire.

"Pull your sheepskin out flat. I want you to assume Sim's position."

"Sim's position?" Molly squeaked, scurrying to lay out the thick pad that was evidently _her_ sheepskin.

"A rather charming Victorian invention. Semi-lateral recumbent, superior leg flexed...arse in the air. Do it."

Molly sank into the sheepskin on her belly, then turned slightly onto her left side and drew one knee up. Sherlock studied the positioning for a moment, then produced a pillow from somewhere and slid it under her hips. Molly found that, especially with the pillow, her bum and privates ended up on display in a way that was surely…

"Rather stimulating to those Victorian doctors, I'm sure," Sherlock said, laying aside his suit jacket and turning up the cuffs of his dress shirt. He stepped behind her, then Molly felt him sit by her lifted bottom.

"Now," Sherlock said, "we have a few matters to discuss. You arrived earlier than I specified, Molly. You need to remember that if you undertake to obey my orders, I require you to obey with absolute precision."

His hand flashed in the corner of Molly's eye and connected with her backside. She squealed. The pain wasn't intense, but the smack shocked her and left her skin hot.

"Obedience, Molly! And absolute precision in all things!" he shouted at her, his great voice filling the flat. He delivered another smack, and another, and Molly yelped and jerked reflexively, clutching at the sheepskin.

"Stay down, girl, or I'll make you stay," Sherlock growled.

Molly couldn't help it; she twisted as he spanked her arse a fourth time, fighting against herself to maintain her delectably vulnerable position. Sherlock made a terrifying noise deep in his throat and scrambled to kneel over her. He put his forearm on her back, turning his wrist so she felt the muscle instead of the bony ulna, and leaned in, holding her down.

"Molly, give me your safeword." He raised his hand.

"Skull," Molly panted, and his hand fell. And again. "Oh, god..." She was losing count of the blows, and the wispy ends of the sheepskin's rich pile were tickling her open mouth.

"And another thing. Don't think I didn't notice your disobedience last night in the lab, as I was leaving. I told you to keep your eyes forward. But you turned your head to watch me leave, didn't you," he snarled, delivering two hard spanks in quick succession. "Didn't you!"

Molly's heartbeat pounded in her veins. Her arse was afire with sensation; but through it all, Molly remembered...

"The handkerchief," she cried. "You knew...today...by the way I looked at...ah!...your handkerchief."

"Excellent, Molly," Sherlock purred next to her ear, all anger gone from his voice. He shifted until he was almost draped over her body. The hand that had been delivering her punishment now spanned her stinging arse, gently cupping. A finger flicked inward. Molly moaned.

"You thought I was offering you the handkerchief I'd dried my hand on last night, after I'd stroked this hungry little slit. You assumed it was a soiled, nasty handkerchief. Didn't you, Molly!" His voice raised again, and in a flash, the caresses turned into another hot smack, this time on the sensitive lower part of her bum. Molly gave a yelp of surprise.

"Shame on you for believing I'd ever pass you a dirty handkerchief. I was not born in a bin."

Smack! Smack!

"But the worst thing you did, the very worst thing," Sherlock said, his fingers dipping deep inside her again, "was to think of your lovely cunt as 'dirty.'" Molly found Sherlock's wet fingers forcing their way into her mouth, and she tasted her tart, salty fluids for the first time. "A contemptible, medically absurd myth created by a woman-hating society. I'll teach you what is dirty, Molly. Not this. Now, suck every last drop off my fingers. Oh, good girl."

Molly licked hungrily at the long, beautiful fingers that were still hot from spanking her bottom. She sucked them deeper into her mouth and whimpered, imagining him sliding something much bigger over her tongue.

Sherlock chuckled, and Molly blushed. Of course, he knew. He drew his hand out of her mouth, and lingeringly caressed wet fingers down her throat, breast, belly, hip, and back down to her bottom.

"And what have we learned, my Molly? If you choose to obey me, you must always obey me with...what?" His fingers wandered.

"Absolute precision," Molly sighed.

"And is your little cunt nasty, or is it lovely and luscious?"

"Oh! Lovely...and luscious."

"Correct." He nuzzled her neck, then drew a trail down her back with his mouth. "An exemplary lesson. You deserve a reward. And so do I."

His head dipped, and Molly felt his tongue slide into her, lashing her with sensation. She mewled in appreciation of his skill and, oh, the length of his tongue.

A hand came to rest atop her tailbone. Molly felt Sherlock shift for a moment, then his thumb dipped down into her wetness and trailed back up to circle her tiny arsehole. His mouth ravished her mercilessly as the tip of his thumb swirled against the rubbery opening.

For the first time since she had lain down on the sheepskin, Molly felt doubt, blended with an immense, cringing shyness at his touch on her anus. Should she call her safeword? She focused on the feeling of Sherlock's wet finger as it pried insistently at her ring of muscle. It felt rather good, Molly realized, in the same way that it was thrilling when Sherlock shouted at her. Molly relaxed her body, and the tip of his thumb slipped inside. She gasped at the intrusion.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away for a moment. "You should see yourself, Molly. Sprawled naked on my floor with a red, well-spanked backside. Pussy running like a river, my thumb up your arse." His finger hooked inside her, tugged. "What am I doing to you, Molly? I want to hear you say the words."

Molly whispered. "You're holding me down, licking my pussy, and teasing my...bottom."

Sherlock gave a muffled laugh at her prim choice of words, and oh, she could feel that deep voice buzzing against her cunt as his long tongue flickered over her clit.

"Ah, ah, Sher-!" Molly came hard, her cries echoing through the warm air. Sherlock held her down until her crisis washed away, leaving her shaking and sighing with happiness.

He drew his thumb slowly out, then leaned up to snatch two clean napkins from the tray. Smiling dreamily, Molly peeped over her shoulder in time to see him unroll what looked like a tiny condom from his thumb and wrap it in one of the napkins.

"Finger cot, Molly. Very handy for minor acts of violation," he said, lying down behind her and gathering her in. He'd laid the other napkin against the front of his dress trousers, she noted, before encircling her with his body.

For some reason, that precaution against her wetness struck Molly as unbearably sad, and she realized to her confusion that she was sobbing. Sherlock held her calmly, stroking her hair, as she curled inward and choked into the sheepskin.

"Emotional lability. Very normal after BDSM play. You'll be all right, Molly," he said as she howled as if her heart were broken.

Gradually, Molly grew quiet, and a deep peace washed over her. Sherlock's hands were firm on her body. She drifted for an uncountable time, becalmed in a warm sea.

When Molly awoke, the early darkness of winter had fallen, and the fire burned low. Sherlock had folded the sheepskin around her at some point. He was now sitting in his chair, looking just as he did on every other occasion Molly could recall, and reading last week's New England Journal of Medicine while nibbling the last of the petits fours.

"Ah, Molly," he said, catching her eye. "Good evening. Interesting bit here about vascular trauma in the setting of blunt force injury to the limbs."

"Yes, I saw that," Molly sat up and yawned, scraping her hair away from her face. "Entrapment of the pooled blood by the fascia. Increased pressure compromises the oxygenation of tissues distal to the site of injury, resulting in compartment syndrome. Amputation risk, fasciotomy the only treatment option in many cases, yes, I've seen the aftermath." Molly pulled the sheepskin tighter around herself and shivered.

Sherlock turned the journal ninety degrees and tilted his head. "Very pretty picture of that here, too. Almost as lovely as you, my tousled Molly." He gave her one of his cool smiles, and handed her a big glass of water that had been waiting beside him.

"Sherlock, did you just say I look as pretty as a fasciotomy? No, don't answer that," she said. She took a deep drink.

"Shall I compare thee to a well-split leg?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "How do you feel?"

"Bit damp. And sore, actually," she said, carefully touching her behind. "But good."

"You cried quite a bit after our little session." Sherlock was peering at her.

"Yes, but I'm all right now," Molly said, standing up and stretching. "A little shaky, maybe, but I'll be fine. Oh my goodness, what time is it?" Molly fumbled for her watch in her pile of clothes. "I need to feed my cat or he'll make me regret it."

Sherlock caught up her watch from where it had fallen underneath the side table. In one stride he closed the distance between them, tilted up her chin, and kissed her soundly.

His mouth was soft, and he tasted of petits fours, cigarettes, and a faint echo of her fluids, and Molly realized in some corner of her mind that this was their first real kiss. Too soon, he pulled away.

"Go feed your cat, Molly," Sherlock said, handing her the watch. "Lestrade texted me an hour ago about a double homicide, and now that you're awake and evidently well, I really ought to go in. He's been rather keen since I got out of hospital."

He stepped back, now twirling her lacy pants around one finger and smirking.

"I'll be keeping these," Sherlock said, easily holding the delicate scrap of fabric out of her reach as she jumped after her pants in mock outrage. "I've annexed them as a perquisite. Thank you for wearing a skirt today. Enjoy walking home all chilly and wet and naked underneath, my wicked little pathologist."

Out on the street, Molly beamed at the grey buildings, bare trees, and sour-faced people of London. Sherlock had promised to get in touch as soon as he was free. Sherlock apparently had no concept of the superb ability of woolen leggings to protect her bare bottom against the cold. And in the last 24 hours, Sherlock had orchestrated the the two best orgasms of her life. She was expecting a new round of research data at work tomorrow, and she had a delicious new secret to tell her best friend and keep from her mother.

Life was wonderful. London was beautiful. And Molly didn't let herself think about the fact that during their time together, Sherlock himself had yet to undo a single shirt button.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello dearies! This fix has gotten very intense, too intense for . Please meet me over at AO3, where this fic has a whole pile of chapters up for your delectation. Thank you for reading, and I hope to see you soon.


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